three-six-six-pages-blog

[three-six-six-pages-blog]

Prologue

It was the landing that killed her.

Twenty minutes before the dawn of a new year – when fireworks would decorate the night sky in a blossom of vivid colours – Kyra Scott died. She had always loved fireworks. The lights, the colours, the atmosphere. They had always made her heart dance with pure, unadulterated joy, and her face would illuminate with a happiness that was so rarely displayed amongst humanity those days. An expression that would never again touch her cold, expressionless face.

Eager to find a vantage point to watch the fireworks, Kyra had climbed a miniature mountain, of sorts, that was situated in her local park. One side was a sloping grassy area that slowly curved upwards before coming to a level, open space about twelve meters long. The drop over the other side was steep, approximately eighteen meters high, and a pathway curved its way through the grass underneath it – but it wasn’t hard to miss.

Kyra was aware of the drop – she had ventured up the hill time and time again, even at night – and she was extra careful during that climb. It had rained viciously during the previous days and she was all too aware of the fact that the grass would be slick with mud. She had removed her heels and clambered up the hill slowly, carrying her shoes in one hand whilst she used her other to pin a blanket around her upper half. Her best friend had trailed behind her, silently mourning the death of her white trainers. Neither had been afraid that they might fall. Why would they be? They visited the place often enough; it had been their go-to hang-out spot since they were teens. They knew the area like the back of their hands. What did they have to fear?

As Kyra had neared the edge of the hill, absentmindedly uncurling the blanket from around herself, something entwined itself around her ankle. Caught by surprise, she stumbled, staggered forwards, and fell. It was the landing that killed her – the impact of the hard concrete shattering her skull with a loud crack. Her blood seeped from her head and through her hair, pooling on the pavement’s smooth surface in sickly crimson puddles. She was dead – lifeless before her beloved fireworks even began.

Her best friend – Poppy was her name – let out a silence-shattering scream at the sight of her mangled body. Choking back sobs, she hurried down the safe side of the hill, her knees trembling dangerously. She had almost reached the bottom when they crumpled and she tumbled face first into the mud. She was numb to whatever pain she might have experienced – she was numb to everything but the pain in her mind. Her best friend was dead.

Poppy remained there, shaking violently and staring at the empty space before her. Her mind was blank yet screaming at the same time. The scene she’d just witnessed replayed again and again. Kyra falling. Her face. The deafening silence as her body hit the pavement below. The blood. So much blood. And the way the world continued on like nothing had changed. Like Poppy’s heart hadn’t just been wrenched from her chest.

Five minutes. Five minutes until the fireworks would bloom in the darkness of the night. Five minutes until a new year would come. A year without Kyra. A year where she would be dead.

Poppy swallowed. It was hard. Her throat was dry, and her mouth tasted like bile. She wanted to wretch and regurgitate her entire stomach, but she didn’t.

Breathing shallowly, she closed her eyes, counted to five and opened them again. She climbed to her feet, absently wiping at the mud on her face with the back of one quivering hand. She closed her eyes again and did the same, bracing herself for what she had to do – just to be sure.

Slowly, unsteadily, Poppy turned in the direction of the path and walked towards it. “One foot in front of the other.” She reminded herself in a low, hoarse voice, forcing herself to keep going. Until suddenly, all too soon, Kyra’s body was in front of her.

This time Poppy did throw up. And then she fainted. When she opened her eyes, she was staring at the sky. No fireworks graced the black, endless canvas, but she could have missed them. Timidly, forcing herself to focus on only the task at hand, she reached for her phone to check the time. Three minutes. She had to pull herself together – get herself to Kyra – watch the fireworks with her one last time. Even if Kyra couldn’t see them. Even if she’d never see them again. A small part of Poppy hoped that her best friend was still alive, despite the fall, despite the injuries – maybe she was okay. It was a false hope. She knew Kyra was dead. But the hope remained anyway.

Poppy pulled herself up onto weak hands-and-knees and crawled forwards, training her eyes on the floor beneath her. She tried to ignore the foul smell of her own vomit and blood and the scent she could only identify as death. She tried to pretend that she didn’t know that Kyra was long gone from this world. And even though she did know, it didn’t lessen the blow when her best friend’s lifeless, bloody face was in her line of vision. She lurched forwards, pawing at Kyra’s face and hair, urging her to wake up – to laugh at her for being so stupid and easy to prank. Kyra didn’t move. Not even a single breath left her paling lips.

“Kyra!” She pleaded. It sounded so lost – so desperate. “Wake up.” She knew logically that she would never wake again, but she couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out of her mouth. She would do anything – absolutely anything – to see her best friend alive and thriving again. “I wish it had been me.”

“It could have been.” A monotone voice spoke from behind her. Poppy squeaked and jumped. Her head whipped around rapidly. The dried mud that was smeared across her skin cracked, disturbed by the movement. She thought she’d find herself facing the police. She’d expected to find herself in a predicament trying to hopelessly explain that she hadn’t killed her best friend. The man – thing? – in front of her was not the police at all. They were dressed from head to toe in a long back robe, completed with a deep hood that slipped down over their face. In one hand, they carried a strange object – like something a farmer might carry, but deadlier. Weird.

“Who are you?” She whispered. She felt no fear towards the man – was it even a man? She felt nothing at all. Just endless, cold numbness and a sense of loss so deep it would never be filled.

“Death.” It stated cryptically. “I have come to claim your friend.”

“But-“ Poppy started. She couldn’t explain why she was arguing; she didn’t have a thing to say. She swallowed, reassessing her words. A storm-cloud rained in her mind. “You can’t take her.” She rasped.

“And why is that?” Death replied. Poppy had figured that it may have been angry at her statement, but its voice was devoid of emotion.

“Don’t you have those deal things?” She stammered, drawing on her knowledge of myths and books she’d read. “A soul for a soul kind of thing.” She wasn’t even sure what she was saying.

“What are you proposing?”

“Her life. For mine.” Poppy was taken aback by her own words. She hadn’t even consciously considered it. She wasn’t sure why she suggested it, and yet, glancing down at Kyra’s corpse, she didn’t regret her words.

“I see. The standard deal is I return her soul, restore her physically so she doesn’t simply die again, and claim your soul within a year. Is that what you wish?”

“Yes.”

“365 days then.” Death held out a hand.

“366.” Poppy corrected, reaching out her hand to make the deal. Death’s hand retracted, before she blurted, “It’s a leap year!” The hand returned and she shook it, a black hole opening in the pit of her stomach.

A loud bang echoed through the air and Poppy jumped, shrieking embarrassingly. When she searched for the source of the sound, she noticed the first spray of pink fireworks bursting in the air. Reassured, she glanced back to the ground behind her. Death was gone.

“What happened? My head feels like I got trampled on.” A voice groaned and the void inside of Poppy closed.

Kyra was alive.